Sandra Belloni — Complete eBook

“Nothing, if you do not love me,” he was
replying mournfully, when, “Yes! yes!”
rushed to his lips; “marry me: marry me
to-morrow. You have loved me. ‘I am
never to leave you!’ Can you forget the night
when you said it? Emilia! Marry me and you
will love me again. You must. This man, whoever
he is—­Ah! why am I such a brute! Come!
be mine! Let me call you my own darling!
Emilia!—­or say quietly ‘you have nothing
to hope for:’ I shall not reproach you,
believe me.”

He looked resigned. The abrupt transition had
drawn her eyes to his. She faltered: “I
cannot be married.” And then: “How
could I guess that you felt in this way?”

“Who told me that I should?” said he.
“Your words have come true. You predicted
that I should fly from ‘that woman,’ as
you called her, and come to you. See! here it
is exactly as you willed it. You—­you
are changed. You throw your magic on me, and
then you are satisfied, and turn elsewhere.”

Emilia’s conscience smote her with a verification
of this charge, and she trembled, half-intoxicated
for the moment, by the aspect of her power. This
filled her likewise with a dangerous pity for its victim;
and now, putting out both hands to him, her chin and
shoulders raised entreatingly, she begged the victim
to spare her any word of marriage.

“But you go, you run away from me—­I
don’t know where you are or what you are doing,”
said Wilfrid. “And you leave me to that
woman. She loves the Austrians, as you know.
There! I will ask nothing—­only this:
I will promise, if I quit the Queen’s service
for good, not to wear the white uniform—­”

“Oh!” Emilia breathed inward deeply, scarce
noticing the ‘if’ that followed; nodding
quick assent to the stipulation before she heard the
nature of it. It was, that she should continue
in England.

“Your word,” said Wilfrid; and she pledged
it, and did not think she was granting much in the
prospect of what she gained.

“You will, then?” said he.

“Yes, I will.”

“On your honour?”

These reiterated questions were simply pretexts for
steps nearer to the answering lips.

“And I may see you?” he went on.

“Yes.”

“Wherever you are staying? And sometimes
alone? Alone!—­”

“Not if you do not know that I am to be respected,”
said Emilia, huddled in the passionate fold of his
arms. He released her instantly, and was departing,
wounded; but his heart counselled wiser proceedings.

“To know that you are in England, breathing
the same air with me, near me! is enough. Since
we are to meet on those terms, let it be so. Let
me only see you till some lucky shot puts me out of
your way.”

This ‘some lucky shot,’ which is commonly
pointed at themselves by the sentimental lovers, with
the object of hitting the very centre of the hearts
of obdurate damsels, glanced off Emilia’s, which
was beginning to throb with a comprehension of all
that was involved in the word she had given.